Thomas Moore ( )


From Irish Melodies. 74. My Gentle Harp


          MY gentle Harp, once more I waken
                The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;
          In tears our last farewell was taken,
                And now in tears we meet again.
          No light of joy hath oer thee broken,
                But, like those harps whose heavenly skill
          Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
                Thou hangst upon the willows still.

          And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
                An hour of peace and triumph came,
          And many an ardent bosom bounded
                With hopes  that now are turnd to shame.
          Yet even then, while Peace was singing
                Her halcyon song oer land and sea,
          Though joy and hope to others bringing,
                She only brought new tears to thee.

          Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,
                My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?
          Alas, the larks gay morning measure
                As ill would suit the swans decline!
          Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee,
                Invoke thy breath for Freedoms strains,
          When even the wreaths in which I dress thee
                Are sadly mixd  half flowers, half chains?

          But come  if yet thy frame can borrow
                One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me,
          And show the world, in chains and sorrow,
                How sweet thy music still can be;
          How gaily, even mid gloom surrounding,
                Thou yet canst wake at pleasures thrill 
          Like Memnons broken image sounding,
                Mid desolation tunefull still!



Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 46
  2. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 60
  3. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 9
  4. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 50
  5. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 74


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